


Taboo.

by prettylittledarkstar



Series: A Collection of Reylo Shorts [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Violence, Cigarettes, Cold War Era, F/M, Reylo - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, forbidden almost love, i would say slow burn, it's the sixties, opposite sides of a war, spitfire rey and smug kylo, spy AU, they hate each other but also like...not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 21:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11998455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittledarkstar/pseuds/prettylittledarkstar
Summary: These violent delights have violent ends.





	Taboo.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoupDeFoudRey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoupDeFoudRey/gifts).



> The prompt given: R u still accepting reylo prompts? Here is one; Kylo is a KGB spy and Rey is from MI6 while they are trying to prevent each other getting a very important file, a feeling starts growing (old years)
> 
>    
> 8-8-17
> 
>  
> 
> dedicated to coup de boopy doop. much love!

_If his whisper splits the mist, just think of what he’s capable of with his kiss..._

 

\--------

 

Any other night, she could have handled this. 

Any other night, she could have taken the job in stride and done what any one of her other fellow agents were capable of.

But this wasn’t any other night, and any other agent couldn’t do what she could. 

Highly sensitive data on American nuclear advancements had found its way into the wrong hands and would soon be transferred to a third-party organization that sought to use it for destruction. Since it landed in the UK, it was Rey’s job to obtain the file to be returned to its rightful place behind allied US borders. Easy enough, but only on paper.

Data never found itself someplace easy. It always had to be in someone’s home, or in a vault. This data was at a party.

No matter how upscale the venue, the sixties held fast to the glitz and glamour of the cigarette, deigning it almost a staple at each and every dinner party the decade hosted. This party was no exception. Smoke clouded the room in a grey haze, impairing her line of vision and forcing her to remain acutely alert. She was beginning to regret her decision to stay up researching in the archives at the office instead of going home to sleep a few extra hours before heading to where she sat now. No sleep. No back-up, either. The assignment held a certain level of secrecy that few knew about, and the other two souls executing the plan believed her to be the Prodigal Son of field work, not in need of a team to help her.

As she scanned the area for exits, obstacles, and possible setbacks, her breath caught in her throat at the one person she had prayed wouldn’t be there. Dread filled in the pit of her stomach as her fears were confirmed. Her eyes trained on the back of his head with laser-sharp focus, willing that she burn a hole into his brain to prevent him from mucking this up. And she tried to glance away, but before she could he turned his head and they locked eyes. Her heart stuttered in her chest, an anxious and irritated hiccup that only occurred when she found herself in his presence. She should have put a bullet between those dark eyes long ago, but the opportunity never arose when she could.

Often times, the second they met each other’s gaze, the clock started ticking to see who could grab the objective first. They would race, biting and kicking and scratching, scrapping like strays over food. She was prepared to lunge from her seat the moment he slipped into the crowd, fully prepared to chase him and tackle him in order to keep him from those coordinates.

So imagine her surprise when he instead strode towards her like she was an old friend. A stark-white cigarette hung loosely from his lips, unlit and begging to be shoved down the throat of the man attached to it. He walked with an unavoidable confidence that turned heads, but she quickly averted her eyes and pretended not to notice his advancing figure, still looking away even as he stood before her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean against the bar, resting on his forearm as leisurely as if this were nothing more than a simple get-together between companions.

In drifted a familiar voice from beside her: “Care to offer me a light?”

Her blood boiled and she clenched her fists at her sides, hoping to relieve the pressure she felt building up. She had never wanted to see his face again after the last time they encountered one another. Yet she supposed it would seem strange or rude to any onlookers if she were to continue ignoring him, so she forced herself to look up at him with somewhat of a neutral expression.

He was surveying the clusters of people dispersed throughout the room, gaze distant, but his upturned mouth told her otherwise. She studied him with a vague curiosity, as this was the first time they weren’t covered in blood and sweat, hidden by the darkness of night. Even in Rey’s eyes, he was handsome, but in a tragic and devious sort of way. Deceptively warm brown eyes lured in anyone who stared, and his pale face held constellations of beauty marks, a flawed yet nicely put together canvas completed with plump, pouty lips and dark hair. His features meshed together in such a way as to make him stand out above the rest, but he stood out to her for entirely different reasons. Lethal reasons, specifically.

“Ren,” she said, her voice clipped and precise. It was not their first interaction; they had come to know each other through a series of unfortunate events, many of which involved scaling buildings and firing off guns at each other, sweat dripping off their brow as they kept each other from taking what they both believed to be rightfully theirs. Removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth, he took her hand into his and pressed a burning kiss on her skin in greeting. She wanted to  _throttle_  him, her heart was beating so fast.

“Kenobi,” he purred smugly in that Russian drawl, glancing up at her from behind dark lashes, and his deep baritone was smooth as silk as her name rolled off his tongue. His warm lips were still resting against the delicate skin of her hand, and she felt him smile before gently letting go.

Any other girl would have found it absolutely delightful and swoon-worthy, letting him nail her right then and there, but Rey just rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the obnoxious man. She knew who he truly was, knew what he wanted. To her, KGB officers stuck out like sore thumbs—the men did, at least. The USSR took the handsomest, most impeccably fit and gorgeous men and threw them into the field to go undercover as someone who was meant to blend in. They were expected to walk the walk and talk the British talk, but poshness was not something they had mastered yet. The problem with blending in was the groups of girls who giggled as they walked by them, practically shooting off a flare to the SIS.

They simultaneously eyed each other, picking one another apart with the scrutiny of a Catholic schoolteacher.

“Blue?” he asked of her velvet calf-length gown, the one which hid an arsenal of petite weaponry and supplies underneath. His tone contorted into curious innocence, but she knew of his mockery.

“Red?” she fired back, only for a moment forgetting her purpose there as she critiqued his ironically-hued suit, one that made him stick out like a sore thumb.  _Soviets_.

He offered his hand for her to take, an invitation to dance, and she reluctantly took it, ignoring the pulse jumping in her neck. She shouldn’t be doing this; she had a directive, and engaging the enemy was far from the right thing to do, especially when she knew he was here for what she wanted. But the bed had been made, and now they had to sleep in it.

She tried to keep an aura of sophistication about her as she let a dainty hand fall to rest in his massive one, forcing her chin to tilt upward in minuscule defiance.

When his fingers spread themselves across her hip, it took everything in her not to gasp at the harsh way in which he pulled her in, pressing on a particularly bruised patch she received two weeks ago from their last encounter. Russian intelligence didn’t mess around, and an incident involving a 24-flight commercial building and sensitive nuclear data made no exception. He fought  _hard_  and showed no mercy, his style reminiscent of someone who seemed to actually gain strength through pain, somehow growing stronger as the fight prolonged. However, she had to give him props for treating her as his equal rather than a weaker being or someone who “belonged at home.”  _That_  was something unfamiliar to her, and in some twisted way, she felt that it allowed for a mutual respect to form between them, however tiny it was.

Despite her efforts to mask the dull ache she felt, it must have shown on her face; he chuckled darkly and took her into his arms, a swinging waltz paving their trail.

“Still sore from last time?” he mused, eyes glinting in sardonic amusement as she felt his fingers twitch playfully in the same spot. She knew not whether to blush or punch him in the throat; the latter, while unrealistic, seemed most appealing. Instead, she shot him a burning glare and killed him in her mind in the slowest, most painful ways imaginable, hoping that it would remedy her itch to slam her palm up into his nose and kill him right there.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. “Perhaps you would prefer me to be gentler?” Her lip twitched irritably at his teasing, and when she didn’t respond, he continued as he guided them around the floor, “Hm, no. That would do you no good. I know how you like it.” His voice was exceptionally deep and ever so soft, quiet to where only they could hear. She could not tell whether his lips had brushed against her ear or if she was imagining things, but the involuntary goosebumps that raised told her the truth. The words he spoke next left her seeing red.

“You like it  _rough_.”

“You filthy—I should have you arrested immediately,” she bit out, smiling to cover her harsh tone, being extra careful not to draw attention to them. Though that could hardly be helped, for in a sea of black and white and darkish hues, they shined brightly in jewel tones, taking away the breath of both the men and women who watched.

Ren only laughed slightly.

“Oh, but who would make your life a living hell?" he breathed into her ear.

The bastard.

The quartet had ceased the unique quick-stepping waltz and began a slower piece, one that sounded melodic and dark, almost seductive. So with the tempo as their guide, they slowed down, swirling in and out amongst the other couples who danced. She jolted when he once more found his way into the crook of her neck, but this time he spoke nothing but a whisper of breath that fanned against her skin in such a way that she shivered. He smirked at her involuntary movements and dipped her low, his strong arm the only thing suspending her. She let her arm stretch out wide as her neck of pearls climbed to her throat with the sudden shift in gravity, her loosely curled hair nearly brushing the floor. She felt his eyes, along with the rest of the room's, burning holes into her flushed chest as it rose and fell with small swells. A few of the younger single women audibly sighed, either envious or adoring or both of the beautiful couple who danced with such poise and fluidity, none of them knowing how unseen this truly was.

It felt odd to Rey, dancing instead of fighting,  _somewhat_ -playful banter drifting between them. And, as all agents must be trained to pique perfection, he danced with an eloquence she had yet to see in other men. It was…nice, if not absolutely inappropriate.

When she returned upright and felt normal color quickly returning to her face, she dug her perfectly manicured nails into the shoulder pad of his jacket. She was quite thankful she had gone for stiletto-tipped nails for this assignment; it gave her much needed relief to pierce something, and if it couldn’t be skin, fabric certainly sufficed.

"I hate you," she spat between a lovely smile, feeling the need to let the words be known once more.

"I know," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly, seemingly unaffected by her declaration. It wasn't like she hadn't said it before.

“And you don’t intimidate me.” It was childish, but she wanted to have the last word.

“I know,” he repeated, amused. She almost huffed as anger flared in her gut, but stopped herself in time, instead trying to think of something else to say.

One more comment hung from the tip of her tongue, but before she could so much as open her mouth, the piece ended and soon there was a hand thrust beneath her nose, one belonging to a man with sharp features and red hair. For a moment she stood there, hands clasped firmly on the partner in front of her, staring dumbly at the pale outstretched palm. But her manners quickly returned and she plastered a smile on her face, quickly regretting taking the hand when she watched Kylo slip out of sight the moment he released her.

She barely danced with the tempo of the song, shifting and fidgeting awkwardly against the stiff man’s frame, accidentally stepping on his shoe once or twice, and only because she had let him out of her sight and the damn bastard would find the file before her and she would absolutely die of shame if the Soviets turned the planet into a nuclear wasteland because of  _her_. Her pace quickened, panic setting in at the fact that this fear could quickly turn to reality if she did not act.

“Forgive me,” she said distractedly as she pried herself from the man’s grip, barely noticing the way in which he stared at her as if she had killed his own mother.

She felt like a lethal Cinderella, running towards a corrupted prince instead of away from him, trying to keep the spell contained instead of letting it be her ruin. Her heels clacked against the hardwood floor of the desolate upstairs as she roamed the dark hallways, and as she approached the cracked door to an office, she wished she had been quieter. Rey put her hand on the door and slowly pushed it open, letting herself inside once she checked it was empty. The room was dark, illuminated by a single lamp in the corner, and smelled heavily of paper and old cigarette smoke. It was large, for an office. There was a green leather couch and a matching chair that surrounded a glass coffee table to the left as one stepped in, and a window adorned with artificial plants straight ahead. The window led to a balcony, which overlooked the city in the distance.

To the right of her mere feet away on a desk laid Ren’s ruby red jacket, and placed next to it appeared to be the file she needed. She squinted suspiciously, and before she could put two and two together, the door slammed shut and rough hands grabbed at her.

He slammed them into the wall, bringing her into him, her head coming to hit against his broad chest as they both grunted from the impact. Yet the violence came as a steady relief compared to the sugary sweet hoax of earlier.

“I thought you’d never come,” a deep voice breathed into her neck, a verbal calm inside the physical storm that raged between them, “What happened, darling? Weren’t enjoying the party?” The saccharine pet name fell from his tongue too easily for her taste, and she was forced to push down a twist of jolting electricity that writhed in her gut, willing it to go away as she reminded herself of their position. He had her physically restrained and pinned against his body. Nothing about that was normal.

She slammed her high heel into the toe of his shoe and dug in as hard as she could, but he didn’t even flinch. Of course he would wear steel-toed boots, knowing her track record for sharp shoes. Unsure of what to do, she bit the hand that covered her mouth and his grip faltered, loosening enough to where she could escape his grasp.

Yet freedom is always short-lived for them, and he once more reached out, his fingers gripping her sides. Rey was quick enough this time and he received an elbow to the face for his effort, knocking him back against the wall.

She turned to find him quite literally charging at her, and her eyes widened.

A startled yelp escaped her when he slung her up and over his shoulder and oh, God, did she want to slit his fucking throat, but all she had were her fists and a sturdy back to pound on. He held on tightly to her legs with an iron grip, never moving even as she assaulted him. Her bruising fists only seemed to get worse when she thrashed hard enough to disrupt his balance when his fingers brushed the back of her thighs; he hitched the soft skirt of her dress up to her back, exposing every garter and every little secret she had hidden from him. He hummed his interest and she felt his hair swish against her leg as he shook his head, fingertips drifting over each one of her knives and tools.

Her mouth went dry and her lips parted slightly at his feather-soft touch, her steady fists faltering at the feeling. Her hands ceased altogether when he spoke.

“ _Le Papillon_?” he asked of her butterfly knife as he traced its outline on her skin and the lacy fabric of her garter, making her shiver more than she could admit, and she wondered not only why he chose to speak the words in French but also why they sounded so nice coming out of his mouth. “I hoped you would have been a bit more creative for me. I feel like I deserve it.”

His sounded slightly pouty, and it would have almost come across as sincere if not for the smirk she heard in his voice. But that did not stop her from panicking inside. One of the most dangerous men she had ever had the pleasure of working against had her slung over his shoulder like she was a rag doll and was flirting with her knives. And his fingertips were dangerously close to her center and she hated the quickened pulse she felt all over her body, knowing that it came not from anger but something more feral, more forbidden. She was meant to hate him, not fall victim to his teasing like the schoolgirls on the street, melting into a puddle of lovelorn nothingness.

“A knife is nothing more than a distraction,” he scolded, and she felt like a petulant child, “If you should  _ever_  want to kill me, do so with your hands.”

“I shall kill you twice, once for you and once more to prove a point. And I’ll do it with my hands  _and_  my knife,” she hissed.

“You’ve already killed me once,” he said, and she wondered what he meant by that, but only briefly. Her plan had been made, so it was time to execute it.

Rey twisted her torso upward and she grabbed his head, yanking him back so they would fall. And fall they did, right into the miniature living area, smashing the coffee table to bits with a loud crash of glass and wood and grunts. The force of the fall was doubled when he landed on top of her, crushing her torso, and Rey had to gasp to pull air into her constricted lungs. Shards of broken glass dug into her back, but the pain was barely there as she gathered her surroundings. With a hard shove of her legs, she managed to kick him off and distract him enough to overpower him. Rolling on top of the freshly-bloodied man, Rey crushed his wrists with her knees as her feet hooked onto his legs, holding him securely in place. Tendrils of her brown hair that she had so painstakingly styled fell into his face when she leaned over and dug her blade into the fragile skin of his throat.

“Three strikes and you’re out,  _Ren_ ,” she fired back, tongue as sharp as the knife she pointed at him. A drop of blood creeped down from the little line she had drawn on his neck and he swallowed, the muscles of his throat shifting beneath his skin. What a strange thing it was to look at him like he was human, not some relentless beast with ungodly stamina.

Instead of the expected fear in his eyes, she saw only amusement, as if this was some fun game they were playing. Flames of anger rose in her gut and she felt them burn her insides all the way up to her throat. How on God’s green earth did he manage to be intimidated by absolutely nothing?

The answer almost saddened her when she realized:  _He had nothing to lose_.

Many times, agents of any type of intelligence agency were asked to abstain from personal or romantic relationships for the sake of their job. Aside from a few of her friends, Rey stayed true to that rule. It was lonely and sad and everything she had opposed when she was younger; all her life she had wanted a family of her own. But soon she realized that protecting the world from potential destruction by herself was better than bringing children into a world of nuclear warfare. It still hurt to know that she might never have a family, and neither would he, judging by her observations. But she wasn’t going to allow her bleeding-hearted feelings get in the way of worldwide justice.

He only further validated her theory when he opened his mouth.

"Go ahead," he whispered breathlessly, and this time there was no humor in his eyes. Just a cold, dead, emptiness that haunted her. “Do it. Slit my fucking throat."

His words startled her and she stared at him with her brows furrowed, chest heaving.

Was Kylo Ren, the untamable and merciless  _assassin_ , begging her to  _kill him_? She would not allow him the pleasure. 

So she told him as much, sure to emphasize how pathetic it all sounded.

“I’m a little disappointed,” she said. But he merely laughed, a dark laugh that sought to humiliate her.

“I knew you couldn’t do it. Knives are your distraction," he repeated in a mocking, sing-song voice.

“What’s mine is yours,” she cried suddenly, dragging herself to her knees and crawling to the file that awaited her so patiently.

A determined cry fell from her lips when she felt him grab her hips and drag her right back, but she was having none of it. Grabbing her beloved butterfly from the bust of her dress, she whipped it open and swung her arm back, stopping only when she felt it sink into flesh. She let it stay planted where it landed, instead determining to take advantage of his low growl and loosened grip by stumbling up and grabbing the folder with bloody hands. Relief flooded her senses and she turned, expecting to find him on the floor, but saw that he had a hand on his shoulder where her knife protruded and was staggering unevenly towards her. Her eyes widened.

“Give it to me,” he growled, his eyes dark and lusting for blood. A deep crimson stain seeped through his white shirt and grew by the second. As he made his approach, she frantically looked around for something,  _anything_  to help her. But she soon realized that the only way to stop him was to give him what he wanted—or what he  _thought_  he wanted.

Rey had to think fast, else she would miss her opportunity. And like the gods above had sensed her, he tripped over a broken lamp, giving her the perfect window to switch the file with a different one in the desk. Without thinking, she decided to tease him like he had to her, so she shoved the fake file down the front of her dress, letting it peek out. It was so immature, but what else could she do to distract him?

“Come and get it,” she taunted, trying to project a tone of seduction like he had, but it really just sounded like a pup standing up to the alpha wolf: meek intimidation at its finest.

She saw his eyes widen, and for a moment she believed it worked. But then—A booming laugh fell from his lips and he stopped right in front of her, seeming genuinely amused. Rey fumed at the twinkle in his eye, a little embarrassed but more angry, crossing and uncrossing her arms over her chest before deciding to inflict pain by jerking the knife out of his shoulder with an abrupt swipe. He stopped laughing at once and made no noise when she did so, but his nostrils flared and his breathing quickened as he worked his jaw, confirming her belief that he actually did feel pain.

She wiped the blood from her knife with her fingers and swiped it over his sleeve, making doubly sure that the shirt could never be repaired. Before she could even smirk at her handiwork, he had her pinned the ground, stepping on her hands hard enough to immobilize her. She should have expected this, but it made her gasp nonetheless as the wind was knocked out of her. Shards of broken glass that had lodged their way beneath her shoulder blades dug into the floor and pushed deeper into her skin, causing her to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

“You think I’m afraid to stick my hand down your dress like we’re schoolchildren?” he chuckled, “Think again.” The problem was no, she didn’t. In fact, she very much knew that he wasn’t afraid to touch her, which made her wonder why the hell she even did this in the first place. He crouched over her, hair falling into his face, and tugged down the fabric of her bust with one finger. She drew in a sharp breath.  _What the hell was she doing?_  With his other hand he gently and ever-so-slowly eased the file out from its hiding place, eyes locked with hers the entire time. It slipped against her breasts, running over her tense buds, and she fucking hated the awfully sexual way in which this whole situation felt. Worse yet, she hated that she almost  _liked_  it. Masochistic behavior, she thought, would get her no where.

This was, horrible, forbidden. Taboo.

But before she had time to overanalyze anything, the moment was gone, replaced by him returning to a standing position and taking inventory of his surroundings.

Swiping the red jacket from the desk, he carefully fed his arms into the sleeves and slid the file into an inner pocket. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall, adjusting his tie and smoothing down his hair. Rey observed him from her position on the floor with curious if not speculative eyes. He would have appeared to be in mint condition if not for the bloody nose she had given him, but it felt good knowing that he was hiding a world of pain beneath that tacky red coat.

"Until next time, then," he said, that ever-present smirk adorning his face once more. And then, like some superhuman from outer space, he trotted to the French double doors and swung them open before stepping over the railing on the balcony and disappearing.

Her chest fell and rose rapidly as she rubbed her aching fingers, but she wasn't panicked. In fact, she was relieved. He hadn’t killed her. And she managed to grab the file.

She let out a little laugh before slowly easing herself up, the pain finally kicking in, and revealing the papers she had concealed behind her fall.

The file was right where it needed to be.

But later, as she mulled the scenes of the night over in her head, she couldn’t help but feel that her heart, her soul wasn’t.

 

**Author's Note:**

> moral of the story? don't become an operative unless you're willing to handle the consequences, i guess.
> 
> xx anya
> 
> check me out on tumblr, dudes. (same username)
> 
> if you don’t mind, leave a comment and tell me what you think! <3


End file.
